Barking (31 page)

Duncan tried to remember how you went about getting a cup of tea in this place. There was a protocol, he knew, but it had slipped his mind, so he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. He was still drying his fingernails on his tie when the door opened, and the little bald man scuttled in: tray, china teapot, cup, saucer, plate with two digestives, two Rich Tea and a Viennese whirl. He smiled; the little man cringed, dumped the tray on the desk and fled as though every wolf ever whelped was after him.

He frowned. He wasn't all that fond of Viennese whirls.

Jenny Sidmouth was upset with him because he'd stolen a client.
Hardly out of the door five minutes
: straight away after he'd left, therefore. Duncan didn't need to think long and hard about that. There was only one client who fitted the criteria: the file that had come swooping in after him like a homing pigeon, much to his disgust. His least favourite too-difficult file; the client who'd had enough clout to get him fired; the client who was also, apparently, a unicorn. Not to mention dead.

Bowden Allshapes.

T
he unicorn was saying his name.

He stopped dead. Inertia hit him like a truck up the bum, jerking him forward so that his feet skidded. She'd stopped too. She was only a few feet away; less than that, even, mere inches. He tried to spring, but his feet were stuck in something. He looked down. Icing - he was ankle deep in white cake icing. Well, he'd never liked the stuff much at the best of times.

He strained against the air, like a carthorse pushing against its collar. No chance; because it was one of those dreams, the sort where you can almost get there but not quite. He growled.

‘Duncan,' she said. ‘For fuck's sake.'

Not her usual style; and part of him was aware that it wasn't really her talking. It was Pete, shaking him by the shoulder and telling him to wake up. But only part. The other part could almost feel the tickle of her fur on the tip of his nose, it was so close. It pushed—

‘Silly,' said the unicorn. ‘I'm not the one you're after, am I?'

That didn't sound like the sort of thing Pete would say. He strained a little more, until the pain in his ankles broke his concentration.

‘When she comes for you the second time,' the unicorn said, ‘remember where you put the sausage roll. Got that?'

‘Sausage roll,' he repeated. ‘Yes, got that.'

‘Then basically you're ready,' she said. ‘And I think your hairy friend is trying to attract your attention. You'd better wake up before he dislocates your shoulder. Oh, and by the way—'

(‘Wake up, you dozy bastard,' Pete was bawling in his ear. ‘There's a client in reception for you.')

‘Yes?' he said.

‘The reason why the accounts won't balance is that you've forgotten to add the—'

He opened his eyes. His field of vision was full of Pete. No unicorns anywhere.

‘Forgotten what?' he mumbled. ‘Fuck it, Pete, what've I forgotten? '

Pete scowled at him. ‘The client you've got coming in at three-fifteen, presumably,' he said. ‘Which is why the poor git's been sitting out in the front office for the last ten minutes.'

‘No.' Duncan sat up sharply and nutted himself on Pete's chin. ‘No, the accounts—'

‘What?'

‘Forget it.' He sank back in his chair. ‘What time is it?'

‘Twenty-five past three, and you've got a client—'

‘I must've fallen asleep.' Not, Duncan realised, the most perceptive thing he'd ever said. ‘But hang on,' he went on, ‘what about the pub trip? You know, lunchtime drinking except we don't get—'

‘We didn't go today. Luke said he didn't feel in the mood. Look, what's that got to do with anything?'

‘Nothing.' Duncan yawned and stretched. His knee collided with the desk, jarring something off it onto his lap. A tape-measure: how had that got there? He scowled at it, as if everything was its fault, and shoved it in his inside jacket pocket.'Who did you say was in the front office?'

‘Client.' Pete was sounding volcano-about-to-erupt patient. ‘It's in your diary, you pillock. Look.' He stabbed a chunky forefinger at the diary open on Duncan's desk. ‘Three-fifteen, Mr Bois d'Arc. Pull yourself together, can't you? You're supposed to be a lawyer.'

‘Ah, but I'm a disgrace to the profession,' Duncan replied. ‘Still trying to work out if that's a bad thing, in context.' He yawned again. Ninety per cent of his body ached. Last night, presumably, catching up with him. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Must've dropped off. I hate sleeping in chairs, it always gives me a cricked neck.' He glanced down at his diary. The entry was there all right, but not in his handwriting. He couldn't remember anything about it, and the name itself rang no bells. ‘I suppose I'd better go and see this bloke,' he yawned.

‘Yes,' Pete snapped. ‘And get rid of him as quick as you can, will you? I saw him, he's a fucking weirdo.'

Coming from a werewolf, that was strong terminology. ‘All right,' Duncan said mildly. ‘In what way a weirdo, though?'

‘I don't know, do I? I didn't hang about. Gave me the creeps.'

Intriguing. To someone who'd talked to the unicorn, the creeps didn't come easily, but anybody who could freak Pete out must be interesting, to say the least. ‘Fine,' Duncan said. ‘And thanks for—' But Pete had withdrawn, slamming the door behind him.

Weirdo, Duncan thought, quickly straightening his tie. His trouser legs, he noticed, were caked in mud. No idea how they'd got that way, but probably he ought to be grateful for small mercies. He sniffed, but he couldn't detect a stranger.

The little bald man in reception struck him as even more terrified than usual; he nodded in the direction of the waiting area, and fled into the back room, where the franking machine lived. Duncan shrugged, put on his being-polite-to-punters smile and looked round for his visitor.

Weirdo, he thought. Yes.

In appearance, the man was so utterly nondescript that he was scarcely there at all. He was medium and middle everything, his only remotely distinguishing feature being a rather pale complexion. Even his suit was impossible to describe - could've been grey, blue or black. His shoes were brightly polished, his hair neatly combed. But ‘weirdo' was exactly the right word.

It was the smell. Partly the smell he didn't have, partly the smell he did. The scent that even a human couldn't have helped noticing was embalming fluid. What was quite palpably lacking was anything human, or even remotely organic. No sweat, breath, methane; none of the myriad bacterial squatters that camp out in the digestive system; no blood.

‘Mr Bois D'Arc?' He pronounced it Bwadark, the eternal hopelessness of the Englishman trying to get his tongue round French.

‘Boycedarch,' the man said pleasantly. No accent.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.'

‘'Salright.'

Mr Bois D'Arc stood up and extended a medium-sized hand, for shaking purposes. Duncan really didn't want to touch it, but what could you do? As he'd rather suspected, it was cold. Not refrigerated; more like last night's pizza.

‘Follow me,' Duncan said, but the man didn't move.

‘'Salright,' he said again. ‘I just got a message for you.'

‘Oh.' Duncan said. ‘Fire away, then.'

Mr Bois D'Arc nodded, and braced himself. A moment later, he opened his mouth. The voice that came out was quite different, and very familiar.

‘Duncan,' she said. ‘I haven't got much time. If they find out I'm doing this - well, I got in so much trouble for the last time, you wouldn't . . .' Mr Bois D'Arc closed his eyes for a moment. Then she continued: ‘Look, you've got to help me. There's nobody else, and I'm really scared. The instructions are on a bit of paper in his top pocket. For crying out loud, don't be late; got that? Oh Christ, is that the time? See you. Bye.'

The voice stopped. Mr Bois D'Arc stood quite still, looking at the far wall. Duncan realised he hadn't drawn a breath for quite a while, and gulped some air. Either this strange man (weirdo; the perfect word exists, so why not use it?) was the world's greatest impressionist - Rory Bremner and Mike Yarwood nowhere, Mr Bois D'Arc number one - or else the voice he'd just heard belonged to his estranged wife, Sally.

‘Excuse me,' he said.

‘Yes? Hello? Who are you, please?'

Oh, Duncan thought. ‘Can I have it, then?'

‘By all means. Have what?'

‘The piece of paper.'

Mr Bois D'Arc frowned, looked about him, saw the stack of elderly magazines on the table, and ripped the front cover off the
Sunday Times
colour supplement for 17 April 1983. ‘Here you are,' he said, holding it out with pride. ‘Will that do?'

‘The piece of paper in your top pocket.'

Mr Bois D'Arc was concentrating. His lips moved silently for a moment or so. Then he felt in his top pocket and produced a folded yellow Post-It. There was fluff all over the sticky bit. ‘This one?'

‘I imagine so, yes.'

‘Right.' Mr Bois D'Arc's cold fingers pressed it into Duncan's palm. ‘I used to be a dentist, you know,' he said, with a hint of great sadness in his voice. ‘It wasn't much, I suppose, but it was helping people who were in pain.'

‘Is that right?'

‘I think so. Is there anything else I can do for you?'

‘No, I don't—'

‘I could look at your teeth,' said Mr Bois D'Arc hopefully. ‘Please let me. It'd be like—'

‘No,' Duncan said, as though talking to a naughty dog. ‘No, I don't—Stop it,' he added, but Mr Bois D'Arc was surprisingly quick and exceptionally strong. Before Duncan could move, the weirdo had grabbed the top of Duncan's head with one hand and his jaw with the other. A little twist, like opening an oyster. ‘Bit of plaque there,' Mr Bois D'Arc said, ‘and I don't like the look of that filling. Would you like me to see to it? Only take a moment.'

He said it casually enough, but somewhere deep down he sounded like a man pleading for his life. Then, suddenly, as though he'd been switched off at the mains, he let go and took a step back. ‘So sorry,' he said, ‘old habits. Well, I suppose I have to leave now. Where's the door?'

‘'Hind you,' Duncan mumbled, rubbing his jaw. ‘Look—'

‘Yes,' said Mr Bois D'Arc, turning through a hundred and eighty degrees precisely. ‘Yes, I can see it, thank you. The pleasure was all mine.'

‘Yes, but—'

Mr Bois D'Arc lifted his left foot and marched stiffly across the front office into the small stationery cupboard, shutting the door firmly behind him. Four seconds later he emerged, retraced his steps, pivoted through seventy degrees and disappeared into the lift, which had opened its door for him. Duncan sagged, and lifted his right hand to his nose. It reeked of formaldehyde.

Well, he thought. Pete had warned him, and he hadn't listened. He carefully unfolded the Post-It note. Sally's handwriting.

Moondollars, Lower Beowulf Street, 4.15. Carry copy today's Financial Times
.

Fine, he thought. Perhaps she felt in dire need of a little financial advice: should she offload those Kawaguchiya Holdings shares now, or wait and see if the Dutch offer was just a fishing expedition? Possible; but so is England winning the World Cup. The one sure and certain thing was, he shouldn't go. Not under any circumstances whatsoever. He checked his watch. Lower Beowulf Street. He could just make it, if he ran.

Just as well he was good at running. He burnt shoe leather down Kingsway, skidded round the corner of Saxony Lane and barged through the heavy glass doors of Moondollars coffee shop with fifteen seconds to spare. She wasn't there, of course. That, however, was nothing unusual. He scanned the room to make sure she wasn't hiding behind a pillar or something, then sat down at the only empty table. A waitress materialised and asked him what he wanted; he ordered a coffee, a sausage roll and a slice of caramel shortbread.

Ten minutes later, his order arrived, but still no sign of Sally. Explanations, he thought, as he tore open one of those stupid paper tubes of sugar: she's in deadly peril and got intercepted before she could escape and come here; the message was a hoax and the whole thing's a wind-up; Luke and the gang have set me up and, any second now, Trinny and Susannah are going to come bouncing out of the kitchen and start criticising the cut of my jacket. He checked the Post-It note again, just to make sure he'd got the right place and time. Then he shrugged, stirred his coffee and opened the newspaper.

Duncan was halfway through a mildly interesting article about capital gains tax indexation when he heard a pop: something like a champagne cork, something like a loud spit. He looked up, and noticed that he could see the opposite wall, in spite of the fact that the front page of the
FT
was in the way. He frowned. There was a hole in his newspaper, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, that he was sure hadn't been there a moment ago.

Odd, but not worth bothering about. He moved his arms to turn the page and in doing so, happened to glance down. There was another hole, about the same size, in his jacket, between the bottom of his top pocket and the base of his lapel. He sniffed, and caught a very faint whiff of burning.

Moths with plasma torches? He didn't think so. But he had a working hypothesis that wouldn't be hard to test. With the butt end of his coffee-spoon, he probed the hole in his jacket. It tapped against something solid, the contents of his inside pocket. He searched and took out the tape-measure that had fallen off his desk, soon after Pete had woken him up. He pursed his lips. True, he'd only given it a cursory glance before pocketing it, but he was sure he'd have noticed if there'd been, say, a shiny bullet embedded in its chrome-plated casing. As there now was.